The Baby on the Beach
by threesquares
Summary: The full title of this piece is The Baby on the Beach; or, What if Booth Knew Brennan was going to run? Set during and after the season finale to Season 7. Booth is a really good cop. I wonder sometimes if he could have suspected that Brennan was going to, or could conceivably, run. What if he was ready for her to? Started as a one shot.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: I have never written a fic before. I hope you like it. Michele**

"This is a nightmare." Booth, in The Past in the Present, Bones season 7

" All of you did what Pelant expected, except for Cam." Caroline, in the Past and the Present, Bones, Season 7

"She didn't invite us in," Lesley said. Not being invited in is one of the boxes on the "suspicious behavior" bingo form that every copper carries around in their head along with "stupidly overpowerful dog" and being too quick to supply an alibi." Whispers Underground, Ben Aaronovich, 2012

Caroline came to tell them that she would be issuing a warrant for Brennan's arrest. She had already helped by giving them a little more time free of Flynn, and now, by warning them. She said that she'd give anything to have this turn out differently and she advised Bones to turn herself in. And Bones thanked her, _thanked her_...and he, all he could think to say was "This is a nightmare." And when Caroline left, she said: "Chere, I"m sorry."

Seeley Booth was no stranger to living a nightmare. Sometimes, when he slept, he had nightmares. When he was a kid, he might have dreamed of giant spiders or a monster under the bed (although even as a child Seeley Booth did not need much imagination to dream of scary things), but as an adult, his nightmares were of real people and things he had done and things he had seen done and really awful places where he had...spent time. The nightmares were easier to handle now that he had Bones. He would wake up and she would be awake already, every time, with her hand on his arm or leg or stroking his hair slowly, so that he would know she was there, so that she wouldn't startle him into lashing out. He'd curl into her, his forehead pressed to her belly and she'd stroke his back and he'd stay curled and pressed until his body slowly relaxed. But there was no waking from this. His Bones was being framed for murder, was soon to be charged and put in prison where Pelant's terrible plans could more easily be put into effect. It would be a death sentence. The slow inexorable slide toward this reality, the steady accumulation of evidence and the weight of that evidence was intolerably heavy. It was crushing him and it felt like every other nightmare he'd lived before, each one with its own special brand of desperate and creeping horror.

He had lived through nightmares before. He knew that Bones'd had to live through some of her own and he knew that she shared the same resilience that he did; it is one of the thing they had shared from the beginning...the ability to continue to act and react despite living or having lived a nightmare. Bones was smart, she _was_...the smartest person he'd ever known, but he was a savant in his own way. He'd been working this case as if it were a normal case, as if it weren't a nightmare. He'd been letting the squints do their thing so they could give him something he could use to do his cop thing. But Booth knew now that this was a nightmare and a nightmare had to be fucking _handled_ to be withstood. It was time to start being a cop, to do what he did better than any cop, anyone else that he knew really. It was time to really _see_ what was going on around him, before it was too late. It was time to listen to _everybody-especially_what they weren't saying-and to put some plans in place. If nothing else, to help him withstand the torture to come.

B

Booth sat on the church steps until it started to get dark. Then he went home. He made three calls, the first to Flynn, to report that Brennan had left in order that Booth be seen to be as honest and forthcoming as possible, on the slim chance that he be allowed to continue working near people who were working the case. The second to Angela, for obvious reasons. The third call was to his Army Reserve Sergeant about the training exercises this weekend. He answered only one call.

B

Brennan slumped against the headboard of the bed. Her father didn't join her and Christine at the first location so, as he had directed, she was now at the second location, in Maine. She was in a small cabin, one of 20 or so, and there had been a message waiting for her at the desk, that her father had been delayed but would be joining her tomorrow evening. She assumed the message was just to let her know that he'd be coming at all given that since there was no set time for their meeting, he could not actually be _delayed_. She arrived in early afternoon, and changing into a nondescript set of shorts and t-shirt, baseball cap and sunglasses, took a long walk on the beach with Christine. The owners of the cabins had been congenial but not inquisitive and the place was far enough up the coast that it wasn't crowded. She had only passed a few people on her walk and they were all involved in their own recreation.

While she walked, she talked to Christine who, in her stroller, looked for all the world to be listening attentively. Brennan talked about science, Chemistry mostly, because while bones and the skeletal system were endlessly fascinating to her, there were many fascinating stories about the uses and design of various molecules, elements, and compounds. Finally, when Christine started getting fussy, she stopped and nursed her baby in a sheltered, rocky corner of the beach, letting the sound of the waves and gulls and the feel of the sand on her feet sooth her. This case had turned into a nightmare and now she was away from Booth and nothing, _nothing_ could be right when she was away from Booth. They had only been together romantically, for less than two years, but for many years before that, being near him had become essential to her well-being, to _functioning_. She worried endlessly over her options, what she could have done differently. But logic and reason dictated that the safest thing was to go on the run and let Booth and the others make it safe for her to return home. She knew that. But she ached. Ached for Booth, for the warmth of him in her bed, the sound of his breathing, the feel of his hands on her. Sighing a sad sigh, Brennan wiped her cheeks, heaved herself and Christine up and started the long walk home.

B

Brennan put the remnants of dinner away in the small cabin refrigerator, having picked up bread and cheese, cereal and milk, fruit and tea, at the small grocery story in the nearby town. Christine was up from her late nap and was alert and happy, having had her own dinner and her diaper changed. Brennan expected that she'd go down for the night in an hour or two and then she herself could consider how best to survive one more night without Booth. A knock on the door startled her and a wave of fear left her breathless and swaying. She froze, wondering if she should be packed and ready to climb out a window at any given moment. She looked from Christine to the door and finally, quickly placing Christine in her baby carrier, Brennan tucked her into the bathroom, behind the door. Then, taking a deep breath, she opened the door.

B

Booth didn't think that anyone else would see the fear in her eyes when she opened the door. But he did. And before she could say anything, do anything, he stepped forward, crowding her into the room, closing the night out and sealing the naked light in. But other than the two steps back required to let him in, she stood her ground, just as she always had with him, and Booth found himself only inches from her, feeling her breath on his face and his eyes locked on hers.

"_Booth_." she gasped. "What_..."_

But he couldn't talk, not yet. He gripped the back of her head and pulled her even closer, his mouth covering hers and silencing any protest she might have made, any questions or demands she wanted answered. If Brennan needed information, it wasn't as important as kissing him and her arms snaked around his neck, pulling him to _her_, and then just as quickly, slipping her hands under his shirt to touch his bare skin. Booth moaned and moved to kiss from her mouth across to her ear, her neck, inhaling deeply and finally, just pressing his face into her, arms clutching her close to him. She settled too, breathing heavily, slumping against him, a welcome weight against Booth's chest. He shifted them slightly so that he was leaning against the wall next to the door and she rested against him. Her quiet voice vibrated low against his throat.

"How did you find me? Are you angry?"

But Booth just squeezed her hard, once, and went to see Christine, who seemed happy to see him, or at least, laughed herself silly when he clapped his hands and made a face. Booth kissed her too, pulling her from her seat, snuggling her against him, talking to her, telling her he loved her and missed her and that she needed to remember that he was her Daddy and that he would always protect her. Booth moved to the door and opened it to let a man enter and then turned to Brennan, diffusing her sudden worry by handing her Christine.

"Bones, this is Dan. Dan is a father, has three kids of his own. I want him to take Christine for a walk, just babysit for a little while, so we can talk. He's not taking her away. He'll bring her back to you, she'll stay with you, but I need...I need a few minutes alone with you. OK?"

Brennan, never one to be rushed, jiggled Christine slightly as she analyzed the situation and studied Dan, and then shared a long look with Booth, long and serious. Dan, for his part, stood quietly, still, but something in his stance made her think he was military and that perhaps Booth had told him what to expect. Then she nodded and carefully handed Christine to him. He smiled and settled the tiny girl comfortably in the crook of his arm. Nodding briefly at Booth, Dan turned and left, closing the door quietly behind him.

B

Brennan watched Booth carefully, wondering when he would tell her what was going on. Before he would tell her anything though, he was clearly going to check all the windows, including the bathroom, and close the curtains. He left a light on in the bathroom, but pulled the door partially shut and then turned the lights off in the main room. Brennan couldn't think, didn't understand how he could be here, but her relief that he was overrode all else. As ever, his physical presence exerted a force on her that was both comforting and invigorating. Finally, he turned from where he stood across the room, and holding her gaze, he deliberately pulled his shirt off over his head. Brennan watched as the gold St. Christopher's medal pulled free of his shirt to rest against his skin, _lucky medal_, and she caught glimpses of the tattoos on his wrists, _dear man_, and then she could only try to breathe as he was suddenly _there_, against her, kissing her neck again, and pulling her own t-shirt over her head, unsnapping her bra and shorts, pushing her shorts down with her underwear even as he sucked at her breast, strong and hard and a little painful but oh so much pleasure, that she felt herself wet and ready and her hips pushed toward him, hard. Unsnapping his own jeans, he pulled himself free of them _no underwear! _without pulling them down. Reaching between her legs, he lifted her easily straight up and against the nearest wall, stepping in between her legs and then dropping her slowly, licking her chest and breasts and throat, breathing deeply, until she was right where he wanted her. And then, then, he thrust upward and at the same time lowered her so that they were finally joined the way they _should_ be, they way they _always should be, always always always never apart never_and Brennan shook and wrapped her legs around him and finally, seeing the depth of his need for her, she sealed her mouth to his, wet and hot, open and honest. Giving him everything as he thrust brutally against her, and she came, pressing even harder at his mouth and moaning into it as he came, too, in absolute silence, shuddering hard against her.

B

Clothed now, but still pressed as close together as possible, Brennan sat on Booth's lap in the room's only armchair, her head pressed against his shoulder and tucked under his chin. Booth, for his part, had one hand under her shirt, stroking her back, and one arm wrapped around her body so that his hand was buried in her hair and moved, stroking her hair slightly at the nape of her neck. And, finally, he spoke.

"Bones. I knew you were going to run. It took me a little longer to see it than it should have; I was distracted, but in all fairness, I knew it before you did, so I had a little time to prepare, to have someone following you. That's how I knew where you were."

Fears of Pelant following him or the FBI following him or something else she hadn't even thought of yet rose up in Brennan. Booth cut her internal turmoil short.

"I knew because I know you. No one else expected it, believe me. But listen to me now. I trust you. I trust you, Bones, and you need to trust me. Sure, I'm Seeley Booth, FBI guy, and I'm the system and I'm going to do what I do best to beat this guy. But do not ever forget that I am also a trained sniper. More importantly, I'm the kind of guy who can become a trained sniper which is not exactly the same thing. And I'm my father's son. To my mind, by framing you for murder and threatening to put you in a prison he can control, Pelant threatened to kill you. If it comes down to it, I will not hesitate to end him to protect you. At least with him dead, you'd be _safe_in prison, probably, so we'd have time to figure this mess out. And I promise you, I could get it done. No one would ever know.

"But I'm not going to. Not yet. But I couldn't let you go, for however long this was going to take, without...without..." Booth blew out a deep breath and ran his hand through his hair.

"I haven't been given much in my life, you know that. I _have_a lot. I consider myself a rich man, but I earned it. Fought for every bit of it. For the right and time to be a father. To not be an addict, to not be my father,..hell, to survive to adulthood to have these things and then again, to survive Iraq to keep fighting some more." Brennan didn't hear any bitterness in his words, however bleak, and he was still talking, his voice rumbling against her cheek. She tried to rise up but he pulled her close and tucked into her a little, the way he did when he woke from a nightmare. She reached out a hand, to rest against his skin underneath the collar of his shirt, soothing.

"I wasn't given much, but I think that you were given to me. You weren't something I earned. You can't _earn _another person. I don't own you. I probably don't deserve you. That's the miracle of it. You are a gift. The way you stand up to me, know me, protect me, care for me. The way you are a mother to Christine, fierce and certain and vulnerable. The way you smell right, love me. The way you say whatever the hell you think and don't back down and the way you fuck. I don't know how to say it any plainer. You are a gift and mine to protect and keep. I'll let you go, because I trust you and because it makes sense probably but you are _mine. _And I did what I had to tonight to make sure you know that, that I am nearby or have ways to knowing where you are, and that if you need my help, you can have it. You only have to ask."

A knock on the door sounded in the suddenly quiet room. Booth's arms grew tighter for a second, but then he sighed and stood up, again lifting her with ease and setting her down on her feet next to him. He pulled her in and kissed her forehead. "Too alpha male?" he said, tentatively, pulling back slightly to look down at her. Brennan smiled ruefully and reached up to kiss him softly. She pulled back and said, calmly, "I love you, Booth."

He whispered in her ear. "I love you too."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Brennan wondered how long after they were safely cohabitating again before the desperate necessity to be touching any time they were together would fade. She missed Booth terribly on a daily basis but somehow, knowing that he could find her, _had_ found her, made a huge difference. She believed that they would be together again, even if it meant that he came and got her and they lived somewhere in secret together. Farfetched, she knew (although if they could get out of the country, she could think of a number of places that they could live), but comforting nonetheless. But this desire, when he came to her—and he had, twice more already since that first time—to climb inside of him, to absorb him into her, was the most powerful feeling she'd ever known.

B

When he got back from seeing Brennan that first weekend, Booth confirmed with his Army Training contact that he would be either conducting or participating in the weekend training sessions until further notice. He missed Parker _a second gaping hole_ but was glad, logistically and for safety's sake, that Parker had stayed in England with Rebecca. During the days, Booth worked other cases; tried a variety of methods to get information on Flynn's progress and plans; stopped by the Jeffersonian to stay in touch with the squints. He could tell from the worried looks Angela and Hodgins were giving him that he was baffling them. Cam didn't bother with worried looks, but when he accepted her offers of drinks and shared the bare minimum _describing the very edges of the giant gaping hole in his life_, she was satisfied, if not happy.

Because he had limited technological tools at his command (he did have some, but they were all either analog or used limited-range signals), he had put in place non-technological measures to secure his house at the same time he had Brennan and Max followed: actual people. When the agents assigned to watch his house were sent away by some false electronic order of Pelant's, Booth's man _boy really _watched Pelant walk through the front door. The tells Booth had set in the house whenever both he and Brennan were gone revealed that Pelant had been in the master bedroom and the baby's room but human eyesight has its limitations and seeing through walls was one of them. His watcher couldn't say what Pelant had done while in the house, although he had shimmied up a neighbor's tree to try to see in the upstairs window. The CTV feed should show Pelant in Christine's room but Booth held out little hope that Pelant would ever let _that_ make it to the FBI and in any case, Booth had no access to case-related evidence. While Booth's buddy Mel confirmed that there was a small incendiary device in the clock, he nevertheless decided to leave it in place so as to not alert Pelant, and moved into the man cave for the duration, the picture of a grieving husband and father. Christine's room revealed nothing untoward that Booth could see, but when the angry red mist cleared from his eyes, the boxing bag was on the floor of the garage, his knuckles were bleeding, and his face was wet with sweat and tears.

Other than taking and making a few calls related to tracking Brennan and preparing to protect his family should the FBI and the Jeffersonian be unable to find the evidence they needed to put Pelant back behind bars, during the week Booth worked and worked out. On the weekends, he trained. He was probably in the best physical condition since his tour, maybe before. In the evenings, it was a relief to be able to let down his guard in the FBI gym; people observing him attributed his many hours of grueling workouts to grief and loneliness. Fellow agents gave him space and as his new routine became routine, the wary (Booth was not shy during the day of trying to get information out of anyone he thought would give it to him) or pitying looks turned to impressed respect for his physical power (and more than a few lingering stares from the women and a few of the men) and acceptance of his solitude.

The Saturday night of the weekend following the first weekend of Brennan and Christine's absence, Booth was playing cards with several other officers when the duty sergeant tracked him down. "Call for you, Master Sergeant," he said. Booth looked up, nodded his thanks and took the phone.

"Booth."

"Booth, it's Flynn. …Booth?"

"Yeah. What do you want, Agent Flynn?"

"I wondered if you had heard from Dr. Brennan." Long seconds passed while Flynn waited for Booth's answer.

"Flynn, you have my home, car, office, phones, email, computer, gym bag, and for all I know, my dreams monitored. When the hell would I have heard from her that you wouldn't already know about?"

"Well, I had to ask. And I have to remind you that if you do receive any communication from her, you need to pass it on to me immediately." The man's voice softened a little, "It would be in her best interest to come in, Booth. I know you still think that Pelant is the bad guy here and we haven't ruled that out I promise," Booth snorted in silent disbelief. "Do you hear me, Agent Booth? _Any_ communication will be passed on _directly_ to me."

"Yeah, Flynn. I got it." A smile, a small dark smile crept over Booth's face as he thought of passing on Brennan's non-verbal communications from last weekend. He caught, accidentally, Jeremy Conyers' eye, and the man looked away and down quickly. Booth wondered how alpha his male was projecting these days and then mentally shrugged; he didn't really care.

B

That night, lying in his bunk, Booth didn't wonder about Flynn who had probably checked with the duty sergeant that Booth had been present all day and evening. He wasn't thinking murderous thoughts about Pelant. He wasn't thinking about when Bones and Christine were going to come home. He wasn't thinking that he never knew he always wanted a daughter and about what Christine felt like in his arms. He was thinking about her skin, _Bones' skin_, the way it smelled and felt under his lips. He crossed his arms behind his head, ignored his growing erection, closed his eyes, and started at her ankles.

B

Max was pissed when Brennan told him that Booth had followed her. No, he was really, actually _pissed_ which was a word for drunk that Brennan had first heard in England although it didn't really seem to be limited to that country. It always made her smile a little when she said or thought it. Hours of driving had exacerbated Max's bad back and while he had arrived at the Maine cabin when he said he would, he was in real pain and started drinking as soon as he arrived. Brennan was dubious as to the efficacy of this solution and slightly concerned that if something happened tonight and they had to run, she would have to contend with a passed-out Max. But she gave him what help she could. _Booth calls them her magic fingers_, she thought, wiggling them lightly at Christine before massaging Max's lumbar region. Max, slightly looser, sat in the armchair with more whiskey and told her the stories of his last four days. Certain he was being followed on that first day, he chose not to meet them at the first location.

"You were probably followed, Dad."

"I _know_, Tempe, that's what I'm telling you."

"No, I mean, Booth had me followed. So he probably had you followed too."

Max's head wobbled a little as he turned to look right at her. "What do you mean, Booth had you followed?"

"He came, here, last night, to let me know that he knows where we are and that he will continue to know where we are." She turned away to gather up and fold some of Christine's things, although how something so _small_ can really be _folded_ was a question, and hid the small smile and flashing eyes that came at the thought of Booth last night.

B

Once, when Booth comes, Max opens the door. One of Max's favorite rants is about the risks Booth is taking and how Booth is clearly avoiding facing Max and that when Max does finally see Booth, he is going to give him a piece of this old con's mind. But one look at Booth's face and he closes his mouth. He starts to open it again, but then a second look, this one from Tempe, shuts him down for sure. With a sour look, he packs himself an overnight bag while Booth holds Christine. Tempe packs a cooler with baby food and milk. Grabbing the keys off the table, Max swings the baby carrier full of baby off the bed and leaves them alone.

Brennan had been assuming that Booth comes as often as he can, when he can somehow be sure that his absence won't be noticed. She is not gifted at noticing emotional undercurrents, but she knows Booth and recently she has begun to think that something else is also at work, some other rhythm that ebbs and flows and moves him from D.C. to wherever she is hiding. On this night, she walks deliberately toward him, giving him a similar look to that she gave Max. _Me. I get to say. Don't you say anything, do anything. Just me._ Brennan studies him, notes the leaner frame with thicker muscles over his chest and arms, suspecting that similar changes have been wrought on the parts of his body covered by clothes. He looks, as he always does, like he is ready to snap. Up until now, she has always let him. Let him close his eyes restrained and desperate and let him open them wild and abandoned. He makes marks, but only where it would give her most pleasure; he rubs against her, but only where it makes her writhe; he comes inside her, but only once she is ready to scream. This night, this night was _hers. _

Brennan, reaching him, walks behind him, puts her arms around him and presses her cheek into Booth's back, feeling the heat pouring off of him, breathing in his scent. Booth, for his part, shivers and sways a little but acquiesces, holding as still as he can, letting her lead. Brennan slips her hands into his waistband and pulls the tails of his shirt out and unbuttons from the bottom to the top, finally drawing the shirt off him. She sneaks her hands under his t-shirt until they are resting on his stomach. Booth breathes in sharply and then exhales as she drags her hands (and incidentally, his shirt) up and of his body, stroking his nipples firmly as her hands pass by.

Brennan grabs Booth's hips and turns him, and then she is on her knees in front of him, unbuttoning, unzipping, and then pulling down his boxers. She leans back and pulls off her top, watching him watch her. She touches her breasts, through her bra, and pushes them up a little and then unsnaps the clasp and lets gravity drop the bra behind her. Booth's hands clench and unclench, reach and pull back; his cock strains toward her. He can't decide what to do but then his hands are in her hair because she has taken him in her mouth, all the way in, so deep. He feels like a young man again, knows that he'll be able to come at least twice in the time they have, maybe three. But then again, he wouldn't be younger again for anything, wouldn't give up his life with her, what it cost, what they paid.

Brennan pulls off him and rises to her feet, pushing him back until he's down on his back on the bed, kicking his pants to the side. She is undressing and then she is crawling forward and then she is covering him. She's sinuous and hot and his hands smooth down her sides and ass as she positions the tip of his cock just inside of her and then slams down hard, arching. Booth moans and thrashes his head, eyes closed. Brennan bends over until her nipples press into his chest, until her breath is on his face and she can breathe his air too. "Bones. Bones. _Bones. Please." _

"Booth_._" She breathes. "Look at me." She still hasn't moved and she swears she can feel him, throbbing, inside of her. "_Booth. Look at me." _He opens his eyes, their faces so close. "Booth. Trust me. It's going to be ok. You are going to be ok. I'm here. I'm here." She says the words over and over, not even knowing where they are coming from, but feeling somehow that he needs to hear them. "_Trust_ me. I know you. I'm yours and you are mine. I will not let you go." His eyes are locked on hers even as his head shakes back and forth _no no no no no. _"Yes. Yes. _Yes_. Mine. Come on. Come on, Booth. Come on, baby…" And his eyes widen and his body convulses and Brennan feels him reaching places in her she didn't know he could reach.


	3. Chapter 3

**I'm not sure what to say. I'm so pleased that you like the story, that you take the time to say what you like in a review, that you have favorited it or alerted it or told someone about it. Thanks. I didn't know that there would BE a third chapter, so I hope you like it. You can thank huronia for the fact that the last part of this chapter is four times as long as it was and for helping me get rid of as many inconsistencies and typos as possible. Any mistakes that are still in the chapter are all mine. The chapter is much stronger because of her help. **

**Another thank you to bluemuriel for so gently wondering if I really meant "enervating" which actually means *drained of energy* as opposed to invigorated or energized, either of which would make more sense and were, in fact, what I meant. I think I've fixed it. My apologies and thanks to bluemuriel.**

**Michele**

Chapter 3

Max was learning things about his daughter and as sorry as he was for the circumstances that allowed him to observe her—_and the thought of her in prison made his blood run cold, even if Pelant had not been in the picture_—he was glad for this time with her. Tempe was unique, and had always stood out, in one way or another. He expected to have to teach her how to blend in, but she already knew all that—the "dumb guy" stuff Booth would have called it. As with anyone, what was most difficult to change were those things about yourself that you didn't know. Max was learning that Tempe herself was not only sometimes unaware of the truth of herself, but actually believed the opposite in several significant and _conspicuous_ _how was he supposed to keep her safe_ ways.

He mused on this, watching her from the park where he swung gently with Christine. Tempe was waiting to cross the street to a convenience store to buy a bottle of water. He had, since coming back into Tempe's life, come to see her as someone whose life had been influenced heavily by her fears and insecurities. Maybe this was guilt on his part because to be sure, she would be _appalled_ to hear him categorize her life this way, What he is seeing now, however, in his life on the run with her, is that she is much more complex than that, much more than a woman who lost her family at 15, much more than the woman who overcame that to become the foremost expert in forensic anthropology.

First, she is _excellent_ actually, at trusting people, complete strangers, in many contexts. Her curiosity and intense interest in culturally-based attitudes and behaviors coupled with _insane, in his opinion,_ fearlessness and belief in her own ability to handle any situation meant that she was used to inserting herself into any situation she found interesting. And while occasionally, someone took offense at a question related to race or obesity or, in the case of the biker gang last week, the question of whether homoeroticism played a major role in their culture, mostly people were…well, _grateful_ for her interest, moved by the fact that someone was moved by their choices. Years of asking things no one else dared to ask and receiving largely positive responses to her inquiries, clearly contributed to her exceptional success as a scientist and the richness of detail in her scholarly writing. In her work with Booth, her subjects were almost always on guard, and often guilty of something, and usually regarded her with suspicion if not hostility.

Now, with the daily demands of this job and most of her scientific work taken away, the Tempe from before Booth was coming to the fore. She started conversations with mothers on playgrounds, with innkeepers, with bike messengers, with hikers, with teenage boys. She was careful around law enforcement and really _believed_ she was acting like anyone else, by having conversations. But her interest in others, her obvious desire to know about them, characterized by a manner deliberately clinical and objective, was perceived by most people to be pleasantly non-judgmental and direct, even if blunt. The bluntness was more than offset by the pleasure of such intense interest. People _responded _to her, and told her things that they wouldn't have told others.

Max knew that his daughter and Booth had been close since almost the beginning of their partnership, but not a whole lot more. Max wondered if Booth knew that he wasn't the only one in the partnership who was good at drawing people out.

B

Brennan slumped against the counter with her head propped up against her hand. She was tired; Booth seemed to be tired too, but she still didn't know him that well as they had only been working together a few months. He was quiet anyway, a little bit hunched as he looked down into the drink he held. Because she was watching him, she noticed when his eyes brightened and he sat up a little straighter.

"Hey!" he said, raising his voice and talking, it seemed, to the TV. Some sort of sports game was on and from behind them a good-humored voice called out.

"I know, right!? Can you believe they called him out?! I've been watching that replay all afternoon! Where've **you** been?"

Booth half turned and exchanged some banter with the fellow fan, while Brennan still studied him. The fatigue that had fallen away for a minute crept back into his frame once he turned back to the bar, sports highlights over.

Sid joined them, sliding vegetarian pot pie and steak stir fry in front of them.

"Sid?" Brennan asked.

"Yes?" He paused and stood comfortably by them behind the bar, one hand clasping his other wrist.

"Who taught you to cook? Did you go to cooking school?" Booth, who knew that Sid hadn't been able to afford cooking school, shifted uncomfortably, but Sid answered easily enough.

"I went to the cooking school of hard knocks, Dr. Brenann." he shot her a sly half-grin.

"I don't know what that means. I mean, I know it means that you found it difficult to thrive and grow most likely because of poverty, but what does it mean for you? Were you in prison? Were you homeless and learned to cook in a halfway house or soup kitchen?"

"Bones…" but Sid cut Booth off, leaning forward and leaning on crossed arms on the bar.

"Well, now. My family situation back then wasn't so good. And when I was a teenager I took a job here as a bus boy for Johnny Fok…Wong Foo's is what he named the restaurant. I was underage but he let me help and hang around and he taught me to cook although eventually he hired chefs to replace himself."

He would have walked away but Brennan wasn't finished. "Did he teach you to know what people want to eat before they order?"

"Nah, that's just a gift. Just a gift." Sid looked away and seemed a little wistful. "He always said to trust myself, my instincts, when I was cooking. I actually don't do much cooking. Turns out my instincts weren't really good for food, but I had 'em for people. One day, when I was a little older, wasn't bussing any more and was serving people, I started matching meals to people, for fun, even offering to pay for dessert if I was wrong. Mostly people thought I got it right. All kinds of things about a person tell you how they are feeling and what they are thinking and what food would be best for them to eat: are they sad or feeling silly; are they an older man, a boy, or a woman in a suit and high heels; do they laugh easily or are they listening more than talking. I don't really know how it works. I can just tell mostly." Sid's deep voice, always soothing, was hypnotic. "Johnny used to have me sit in when we hired a new chef because I could tell whether that cook fit with the restaurant. And then when he died, he left the place to me." Sid looked up and directly at Brennan. "So, Dr. Brennan, that's the story of how I learned _not_ to cook." He half smiled again and started to turn.

"Sid?"

"Yeah?"

"What do you serve yourself?"

Sid looked at her for long minute and said "What do _you_ think?" Brennan looked taken aback. Booth looked interested and maybe a little bit skeptical of her ability to choose a dinner for Sid.

Sid, a little protective of Brennan, said "You have to guess too, big man." He smirked at Booth. Ever cocky, Booth said, shooting a challenging glance at Brennan, "Fine."

Brennan assessed Sid carefully, tilting her head and glancing up into his face, her own tiredness making him seem vaguely blurry and soft, dark in the dim light of the restaurant. "You mean, what you would want to eat most right now?"

"Yeah." Sid nodded his head. "Now. What do you think?"

Booth, impatient, said, "That's easy: Jambalya." He said triumphantly. "It's cool outside, so something hot on the inside would be good. You love spicy food."

Sid was still looking at Dr. Brennan. "What do you think, Doc?"

Brennan pressed her lips together doubtfully, shooting a sideways glance at Booth, and looked like she was going to say something but then changed her mind. "I don't know what you would like to eat. I don't know you well enough to guess."

Sid just kept looking. "What were you going to say, just now?"

Brennan sniffed and looked up at him from beneath her lashes. Booth couldn't help but notice the way her cheek was gently illuminated by the amber lights over the bar. She twitched, as if she was going to look toward him again, but didn't. Instead, she said,

"I think you want to eat whatever Mr. Fok would have given you. Maybe what he first fed you when you came to the restaurant. Because you have been engaged in recalling a memory for me and I…I think that you liked that place that you remembered, the earlier time with the man who helped you."

Sid took two pieces of paper off the pile behind them and slid them toward Booth. He smiled at Brennan. A genuine, beautiful little smile. "I believe Booth owes you dinner, Dr. Brennan."

B

In the last week in July, Booth crawled into bed with Brennan in the middle of one night. Brennan woke immediately, startled by the shifting of the bed around her but reassured by the familiar silhouette and smell of her partner. Max had left "his girls" alone for a few days to do some "recon", as he put it, and "put some plans in place". She suspected, however, that the monotonous, baby-centric life they were living was taking its own toll on him and she was relieved to have some time alone.

Brennan rolled from her back to her side and lifted the covers slightly to allow Booth to move up close to her. She reached around him with her right hand, and pressed into him, her nose pressed into the join between neck and shoulder, her hand lingering at his lower back, fingers touching his naked bottom. Finding Booth naked in her bed was the best thing that had happened all day, and she pulled back just long enough to pull her pajama top, shorts and underwear off, and then she was pressed to him again. For his part, Booth clutched her close, stroking her hair and back, pulling her into him. It had been three weeks since the close call in Baltimore and she hadn't seen him until now. She hadn't even seen Dan or any one else. Since she went on the run, these watchers of Booth's had made sure to leave her a note or give her a wave once a week to assure her that they were there. After Baltimore, though…nothing. This was the first contact with Booth in all that time.

"Booth?" she whispered.

"Yeah, Bones?" He responded but kept his face pressed to her and her pressed close to him. She would have pulled back to try to see his face, but he wouldn't allow it, just kept up his slow stroking from her buttocks, up her spine and the nape of her neck into her hair, and back again.

"I just wanted to hear your voice." She thought about saying something about truly not being impervious. About being so far from impervious she wanted to scream or cry or hit something all the time.

Booth pulled back, simultaneously pushing her onto her back, smoothing his hands up her sides…pushing her arms up over her head and pressing down firmly on them, signaling that she was to keep them there. This position made her breasts stand out and Brennan could feel his gaze for a second before she felt the tips of his fingers stroking around the araolae, first one then the other. Around and around, he stroked the tips of her breasts and the sides of her breasts and the heavy lower swell of her breasts and then her sides, her belly and into her belly button and up across her chest, his the calloused pads of his fingertips lightly scraping over her skin. The whole time he touched her, he talked to her in rambling, disconnected thoughts but it didn't matter. What mattered was hearing his voice, the low smooth rumble of Booth's voice. The sound of his voice had never failed to elevate her mood and some of her best memories were of their talks late at night; sometimes she didn't even pay that much attention to what he was saying, just focused on the sound of his voice.

"Bones, I miss you. I miss waking up next to you and I miss your way of saying things in twice as many words as anyone else would use. I ate tofu last week because I missed you. The lab is a miserable place without you. You would be proud of everyone; they are working so hard and when they don't have anything to work on, your interns look at bones, telling each other things about bones so that when you come back they'll have things to tell you, to impress you with. Jacky, at the coffee cart, says that he knows you'll be home soon and to tell you the next one is on him when you get back. You missed the summer concert on the green and I couldn't go without you. People keep writing me or calling me to say they know you are innocent, that they send you their love, that they want to help. Gordon Gordon, Sully, your editor, Dr. Tanaka and Nak, a whole bunch of squints from various places have written and I have all of them printed out for you. I just…just…miss you. I don't know what else to say. Even before we were together like we are, I wanted to protect you and hold you. Now it is so much worse, because I know what you look like under your clothes, what you taste like, what you _feel_ like, and you are gone and I can't reach you. You are fearless and that scares me but I didn't know how strong your fearlessness made me. I just miss you."

Still, around and around in small circles or sweeping arcs, he touched her…starting again at her fingertips, along her fingers, lingering in firm circles on her palm, sweetly dragging along the soft undersides of her arms, up to the erogenous zones of her underarms, up her neck again, up to her face. He stroked up her cheeks, along her eyes, down her nose, her lips. He replaced his hand with his own lips and kissed her softly, with such depth of feeling and longing that Brennan started to cry.

"Shhhhhh." He breathed. "Shhhh. Bones, baby, shhhh. It's ok, it's going to be ok." She lowered her arms until they were around his neck and Booth hugged her, talking to her still. "Roll over, babe. Yeah, that's it." He positioned her so that they were spooning and without hurrying but also with no warning, Booth stroked down into her wetness, pumping into her with two fingers once, twice, and then rubbed her clit firmly with smooth little circles. Brennan's whole body bent back against his, as if trying to knock him loose, her face contorted and still half sobbing. He took advantage of her suddenly accessible mouth and kissed her, keeping her neck bent back and her mouth _open and hot_ to his even as her body settled back into him. His fingers were relentless, never speeding up, just unerringly hitting the right spot over and over again until she cried out into his mouth and bowed back against him. As she jerked back in release, he slid his fingers into her and she clamped down on them _hard_, her hand holding him in place as she jerked against him and her shudders and small cries lessening until finally she was limp against him.

Booth tucked his head into her neck, nuzzling her and holding her back to him tight with his arm, still rubbing little circles on her belly and sides where he could reach. He kissed away the wetness on the parts of her face he could reach.

Brennan gave a little sigh and asked again. "Booth?"

"Yeah, Bones? Just want to hear my voice again?" She could hear the soft smile in his voice.

"Yes, Booth. I find that I like your voice more than any other sound in the world." Her voice was husky, from sleep, from crying, from the strain of being sad and alone and away from him. "But I also wanted to say that I love you." Her voice dropped to a near whisper. "I miss you. Desperately. I miss your smell. I miss your hands. I miss your voice. I miss parenting Christine with you, being a family." Her voice broke and tears were threatening again. Booth tried to soothe her but she spoke again, her voice stronger "I need you, Booth." She arched and turned back toward him one last time, latching on to his mouth with hers. In the dark, she could see his face as she placed her arm and hand on top of the one wrapped around her waist. She moved them until their hands, his on bottom, rested at her waist and then she slowly stroked down her thigh to her knee. His hand in hers, she made him bend her knee up, tenting the covers, and Booth, finally understanding what she wanted, shifted until his cock was sliding along her ass, the inside of her thigh and then stroking, hard, into her. She moaned and undulated against him. Booth brought his hand back up to her breast and, rolling the nipple hard between his thumb and forefinger, he thrust into her, just barely in control, just barely keeping a rhythm. They both moaned softly and for a minute those were the only sounds in the world. He had wanted her so long, his whole life it seemed, and then he had her and now he'd lost her and he just wanted _wanted wanted_ all the time. He thrust harder into her _impossibly wet _pussy and said, "Talk to me, Bones. I need to hear your voice."

"Booth. Booth. Booth." Her voice, still husky, unmistakably _Bones_, chanted his name. "I _ love_ you. I _love _ how you make me feel. I don't feel good…without…you." She was losing her ability to speak coherently.

"You got another one for me, baby?" He moved his hand from her breast to her pussy and started stroking again, and flushed from a wave of arousal as he spread her wetness around her clit but could also feel her skin stretched and wet around her opening where his cock, _oh god he could feel himself moving inside of her _pumped into her. And that was it for him. Booth cried out in release and pressed up, hard, into her body, clutching her to him so as he pulsed inside of her they were as close as two people could get. Two more flicks of his fingers and Brennan followed, shaking with pleasure and relief and love.

B

Despite trying to stay awake, Brennan fell asleep in his arms. When she woke up, she was alone in bed. Panicked, she turned and immediately relaxed, seeing Booth's shadowy form in the armchair. She realized that he was holding Christine, whispering to her, rocking her.

"Feel inside her mouth."

"What? I don't want to wake her up."

Brennan turned on the small light next to her bed. The room was gently illuminated. "Booth, she hasn't seen you in weeks. Wake her up. And feel inside of her mouth." Booth could hear the proud excitement in her voice. He caught her eyes even as he gently put his finger inside the baby's mouth and felt around. He smiled. "She's getting a tooth?! Already?"

"She's very advanced." Brennan bragged despite knowing that the tooth was coming in well within the normal time frame. She grinned at Booth and he laughed and Christine opened her eyes, wide awake and ready to see her daddy.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N Thanks again to huronia for her work editing this short chapter. I made all her excellent grammar suggestions and took her advice on adding a little fantasy. Thank you! Thank you to everyone who has reviewed or favorited or alerted the story. I appreciate it. All of the stories about Christine were taken from a journal I kept erratically for a few years after the birth of my oldest. Glad I had it! Best wishes on this sad day. Michele Sept 11, 2012 **

July 10, 2012

Dear Booth,

I find myself uncharacteristically reluctant to write and yet, with a fairly safe way to get letters to you (via my watchers or even, may I hope, on occasion, giving them directly to you), it seems wrong not to take the opportunity. I will start by telling you about our daughter, because you miss her and she is missing out on this time with you and because I don't know what I will say when I start to write about my own longing for you.

Christine likes to put her feet in her mouth and she twists and tries to watch her hands at the same time. You would find it very amusing to see her as she spends an inordinate amount of time doing what looks just like your "stomach crunches". If I sit her up, she can remain sitting now, so the crunches are obviously strengthening her stomach muscles. She and I take long walks and I carry her close to me, either in a front loading sac of sorts so she can see what I can see or using a wrap, if she is likely to sleep soon. I find having her close to me like that makes me feel…happy, beyond happy. Ecstatic really. The happiness I feel with her has a component of anticipation: as if the experience of being with her includes the certainty that the next moment will be better than the one before. I have only felt that with you, Booth, and never so simply; so easily.

She wakes up happy every day, Booth. It is like the world was made just for her. It ought to have been. She looks at me like she has never seen something so beautiful, so wondrous. She also looks at Sigi like that. And neither I nor Sigi feel slighted, her love of life seems so big. Of course Sigi is a small stuffed mouse toy that Dad bought her and can't feel anything, but I know you will approve of my whimsy.

In fact, just today, she "found" Sigi's tail. The toy is small and stuffed, but it has this firm skinny tail made out of some kind of plasticized string. She is determined to hold the very skinny tail in between her finger and thumb and she worked and worked until she succeeded. Then she passed the toy from one hand to the other and started trying to hold the tail again.

Christine loves to touch eyes…my eyes, Dad's eyes, the eyes on her toys and in books and on the picture of you. When we were reading her I Spy book the other day, there were buttons on the page. She touched the buttons in the picture and I said "Buttons". She reached down and touched the buttons on her sweater. In the bathtub, she reaches for and moves toys with her hands and with her feet. Oh, and the other day, I am certain she was singing. She has a toy with little cubes that play different pieces of music and when she sings she makes a kind of high pitched sound. I would testify that she is on pitch. She might be a prodigy, Booth. We shall have to get her lessons.

Surprisingly, I don't have a lot of spare time to write. Caring for Christine, interacting with my father, pursuing what avenues of inquiry and investigation as are still open to me, completing all the tasks required of someone hiding in plain sight, all take much of my time, and I'll admit it, much energy. I usually lay down nearby when Christine sleeps in the afternoon, and it is then, while it is still day, that I allow myself to dream of you. So far, wherever we have been, Christine and I have had our own room, and I can hear her baby breath and my heartbeat slows, and I thumb through a rolodex of memories, choosing one. Some of my favorite dreams consist of my earliest memories of you. After you were shot and I believed you had died, the magnitude of my grief and loss was utterly overwhelming. It doesn't surprise me that it took us so long, after that, to be together. Before that, though, my attraction to you was much simpler. Even in those early days, I felt a pull that was more than physical. When you came to the lab, my day was more interesting. If I didn't see you, I wondered what you were doing. And when I was with you, anytime, I couldn't stop watching, watching, watching you. I know that I am being repetitive but it felt sometimes like I was caught in a feedback loop. I'd watch your hands move, the tattoos on your wrists, your forearms, the way your shirt moved against your stomach. I'd watch your ass as you walked away from me, your biceps when you wore a t-shirt, the clean edge of the hair on the back of your neck after you got a haircut.

In your presence, I was sometimes quiet because I just wanted to listen to you, watch you. It was easier if I was angry or competitive or driven. I think at that time, though, if either one of us had been a little braver, a little drunker, a little more foolish, we might have taken a chance. Instead of reminding you that Tessa was waiting for you at home, I might have ordered us another drink. And I think of that, resting on the bed, in this room far from home, far from you. It doesn't seem sad or like a lost chance. It feels like a puzzle to me, thinking about what might have been for us, at different times, different places. I am not afraid anymore that we would have ruined our budding friendship or our partnership. I know now that if I had once let myself touch you the way I wanted to, that I wouldn't have been able to walk away.

"Another drink?" You say, with a gleam in your eye, a small tilt to your head, and a tiny little charm smile just for me.

Tessa will be worried, I should say. But instead, I say "Yeah. Why not?"

"So." You say. Now that I said yes and you have committed to not going home to Tessa. You catch Sid's eye. "What would you like?"

"I'd like…a scotch. A good one, after a day like today." You smile and say that you didn't know I liked scotch and I say I do even though I only recently, since I met you, started drinking scotch. Even now, when I smell scotch on your breath, my body reacts. I remember how aroused I was when I didn't have that drink with you, squirming in my seat to put pressure on my clit, panties damp, nipples hard and over sensitive.

And even though this is fantasy, not memory, I can't quite get past the fact of Tessa waiting for you at home, so maybe you did have that drink with me, but the kind of man you were, are, would go home to her that night. Maybe you'd offer to call me a cab when we couldn't find another excuse to linger. And maybe you'd put your hand on my back as we stood and walked through the restaurant and maybe you would pull me into your body for a moment when a couple of drunken men make their way past us. Maybe I let the momentum lead me to you and maybe I lean in and press my nose to your shoulder and inhale you. Maybe your hand slips down a little, firm, on the top of my ass, and maybe I turn so my hot and achy breasts press into your chest. For a minute, we are almost embracing in the dim foyer of Wong Fu's, and the urge to press my entire body against you, to open my mouth against you, to have you thrust against me, is almost overwhelming. But you shift and I let go and we both go home. But maybe it's enough to lead you to end things with Tessa a little sooner. Or maybe you don't, and I get another chance to be bold the night you don't go on vacation. But you were so sad and philosophical that night, I'm not sure that would have been the night either.

I stop looking for the perfect memory now. I just need to be with you, even if only in fantasy. I remember the press of the warm wind, the dark of the moonless night beyond the lights that illuminate the pretty and soulless rooftop in L.A. I watch you with another woman, see her opening herself to you, see you speaking softly, with respect, with understanding, with finality. You join me and I ask you about her, about what you said. We stand at the railing, elbow to elbow, looking down. I turn and look at you. You turn your face a little toward me, acknowledging me, but your eyes still gaze downward at the scene of people. I reach across and with the palm of my hand against your cheek, I turn your head toward me and press my mouth, slightly open, against yours. In that moment, I don't care what happens next, I just want to taste you. I kiss you on the mouth, on the corner of your mouth, on the other corner of your mouth, your chin, your lips again. You...you kiss me back. No hands, no reaching or grabbing, just kissing. Both of our mouths are open, we are using barely any tongue, but it is so wild and uninhibited that I feel like I am drinking you. We are standing now, bodies pressed together but still our hands and arms are at our sides, as if we are restrained. I push into you and you are kissing me so hard, taking my mouth the way I want you to take my body, that my neck is bent back. You ease up slightly and I feel it, a single finger tracing its way down my neck. My body jerks in reaction and you are so surprised by my sensitivity that you pull back. You look at me and reach out and take my hand. I lace my fingers with yours and we make our way back to your room...this is my dream and I want to sleep in your bed, fuck in sheets that smell of you...carefully not looking at each other for fear we will tear each other's clothes off in the elevator. Our hands stay linked even as we walk through the crowded bar to the elevator, as we ride up in the elevator with a giggling group of young women, as we walk together down the hallway to the door of your room.

I have been ignoring Christine's happy baby babbling for long enough that she'll be annoyed soon. I'll set aside my fantasy for the moment. Just as well, because what happens behind that door is better considered in the dark of night. The nights are so dark without you, Booth.

The pain of being separated from you in the way that we are is awful. Christine only sees the world before her, and her wonder and laughter are contagious. I get through the days by trying to see the world as she does. I shall get up and be her mother now. I have a letter to send to you, even if by unconventional means. It is summer and the air is sweet and warm, much of the time. The sun comes up. I still put sugar in my coffee to make it sweet. I am loved and love in return.

Yours,

Bones


End file.
